


Mouth of the Monster

by rubyboys



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry is explicitly non-white in this so if you're gonna be an ass then don't read it lmao, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Room of Requirement, Young!Tom Riddle, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 02:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12596108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyboys/pseuds/rubyboys
Summary: In which a first year Harry stumbles into the Room of Requirement, and has an unusual conversation with an unusual boy.





	Mouth of the Monster

“I didn’t let you in here.” 

The boy was older than Harry, taller just by a little bit. Harry hadn’t ever seen him before, but then again, there were lots of things in Hogwarts he hadn’t ever seen before. 

He hadn’t seen this room before. 

It seemed as though there was an endless supply of secret rooms in Hogwarts--round portholes hidden away behind squat statues, dusty trapdoors below beds, even whole corridors appearing that didn’t seem to be there the day before. This room was new, definitely. Yesterday, the Gryffindor common room only had a main doorway, and two open stairways to the different turrets. 

Harry specifically remembered; he’d spent the previous evening with Ron, lazing upside down on the big armchair, giggling, with the rush of blood to their heads, about weird things each other had never heard of. For instance, Ron was not familiar with the concept of a computer (neither was Harry, really, as Dudley kept his large PC in his bedroom and Harry had only ever peeked at it through the gap in the door hinge, but he wasn’t about to say so). Harry wasn’t familiar with the Melda Merryfizz scandal of the previous summer: the popular singer released a line of dolls that looked and spoke just like her!--it was successful, until the dolls started saying very rude words, demanding ale, and trying to fire anyone who tried to play with them. 

Harry and Ron had hung there for far too long, laughing, until their heads ached, looking at exactly this patch of wall. 

Yesterday, it was graffitied posters of various generations of grinning Eighth Year graduates, a board of notices, and a long table in the corner for late-night studying. Right now, though, the posters seem to have been squashed, shifting them a little closer to the main doorway. The long table seemed just the slightest bit shorter, and the pinboard was certainly much shorter and also a little taller, as though stretched like clay, with many of its notices and tacks scattered on the ground below. It was as though another meter of wall shoved its way into existence overnight, making way for a black, shiny door. 

The other boys were still in the turret, getting ready for breakfast. Harry was still in his pajamas; he had only come down to grab his tie from wherever he left it last night. 

But there was a whole new room. 

And it definitely wasn’t there yesterday. 

Harry had stopped where he was, mid-step, briefly balancing the consequences of making unwise decisions, and the consequences of going through this exciting, magic door. 

And he opened the door. 

And there was the boy, leaning against the room’s mantelpiece in his black robes, casting a cool look over Harry. Much like the boy’s rich glare, everything about him was polished and ready. Clean, dustfree robes, and gelled, neat hair, as dark as Harry’s--but white skin, not brown. His arm was slung over the mantelpiece, and he seemed to be chewing something. 

The room itself was spit-clean and orderly. Cleaned so white, in fact, that the white sofa seemed to be flushed a shade of pale green. There was nobody else around. Nothing else, just a still, expansive silence. 

It was clear to Harry that he did not belong here. Whether it was what the boy had first said--although that in itself was bizarre, as no one had domain over any room in Hogwarts, unless, Harry supposed, they were a teacher--or if it was the unsettling quiet. 

“Who are you?” the boy asked. He seemed vaguely irritated, as if he’d had this anger at the ready. 

“Me?” Harry said. The boy said nothing, and so Harry tried again. “Harry.” 

A short pause slid between them, before the boy said, “You’re Slytherin,” cocked his head, and said, “and pureblood, clearly.” 

“What?” 

“Those robes of yours. They’re no second-hand rags. You’re rich. You’re pureblood. You’re Slytherin. Simple.” He stopped, not quite hesitating, but thinking. “Like me,” he said. 

“Simple like you,” Harry repeated, trying for humour. This boy was weird, and intense. He must’ve been a Slytherin. 

“No.” His frown seemed to carve itself deeper in way of response to Harry’s smile, dragging his dark eyes in to narrow. “Pureblood. I’m pureblood.” 

“I don’t even know what that means.” 

The boy’s hand twisted against the marble of the mantelpiece, like a nervous tic. He balled his hand and withdrew it to his side. “What are you doing in here, then?” He reminded Harry of Malfoy, or maybe of Dudley when Harry caught him sneaking biscuits at night in the kitchen. It was not comfortable, by any means, to be in the company of someone both indignantly angry and embarrassed--but there was a slight thrill, Harry felt, in this kind of thing. Undermining someone who was full of themselves. Standing up to a bully. Whatever. 

Harry snorted. “Why, is it your room?” 

A sneer rose over the boy’s face. “Could be.” 

“It’s part of the Gryffindor common room,” Harry said. 

The boy stared at him with alight, narrowed eyes. “I doubt I’d find myself in the Gryffindor common room. It’s just a bastardized version of Slytherin. Don’t you think?” 

Harry frowned. He didn’t know what that word meant, but he knew part of it was a swear word from Uncle Vernon, and it didn’t sit right with him. “At least we’re not bullies,” Harry said. 

The boy said nothing. 

Then he raised his arms up in the air, closed his eyes, and stretched, yawning widely. Harry could see the wad of chewing gum gripped between his back teeth. It was as if the boy had quite forgotten Harry was in the room. 

Harry shifted uncertainly on his feet. He thought maybe he ought to just go back and get dressed. This boy was really creepy. Ron would probably be able to name him, and recite some bizarre story that explains why he’s so weird. 

“Okay, well. Bye then,” Harry said, and stepped away, starting to close the door. 

The door trembled, it seemed, for just a second, as his hand began to pull it shut, and it alarmed Harry for just enough of a second for him to glance back, and notice the boy, and what he was holding all of a sudden. 

“That’s my tie!” Harry said loudly. 

A smile flashed over the boy’s face. “Gryffindor, then. It was in here. Have you been looking for it?” 

A slight scuffle of noise twitched in Harry’s ears, and he closed the door, stepping definitively inside to meet the boy and reach out for his tie. He felt a bit embarrassed, although he couldn’t be sure why. He didn’t really want the others to see him talking to this boy now. He probably wouldn’t even tell Ron. He just wanted his tie back. He definitely couldn’t go to lessons without his tie. He had McGonagall first, and she was probably the fiercest person he’d ever met. 

The boy held out the red tie, and Harry stepped forward to take it when it was pulled out of his reach, held taut between the boy’s hands. 

“I’m Tom,” he said. 

“Can I have my tie?” said Harry. 

“And you’re Harry. I have a feeling we would get along well, Harry. You interest me.” 

If Harry was in another place, maybe with his friends beside him, he would’ve pulled a face. 

Before he asked again, Tom handed Harry the tie, dropping it into Harry’s outstretched hand rather than touching him. It was odd, but Harry didn’t mind. Tom’s hands were so large and pale they looked almost cold to the touch, like blood simply couldn’t find its way there. He was creepy, but a far cry from the flushed pink face of Dudley. 

“Thanks, then.” 

“That’s quite a scar,” Tom said. Harry raised his lip in protest, wishing his hair was long enough to cover that part of his face completely. The white scar crawled from his forehead to just below his eye, and it seemed to shine on his brown skin sometimes. It was embarrassing. Aunt Petunia always made a point of how Harry’s skin colour accentuated “that horrible scar of his.” Aunt Petunia always made a point of Harry’s skin colour. 

“Yeah, well,” he said, pointlessly. 

“Hm,” Tom said, uninterested. “Scars are dull. You get hurt when someone hurts you. Whoever gave you that--well. If it were me, I would’ve fought back. I would’ve struck first.” 

Harry nearly scoffed. “I could hardly have done that. I was a baby when it happened.” 

“Who would attack a baby?” Tom asked quizzically. 

Harry wrinkled up his mouth thoughtfully. It was a bit of a relief to meet someone who wasn’t going on and on about Voldemort, even if Tom did mention his scar. “Bad guys, I guess.” 

Tom sniffed. “Hardly. You’re such a child. There’s no bad guys, not really. Just people with power, and then other people who want to take it away. Basically, wizards, and the muggles jealous of them. There’s nothing wrong with being powerful. Don’t you think?” 

“What do you mean I’m such a child?” 

“What? Oh, don’t be boring, Harry. What do you think?” 

Harry thought again. He vaguely thought about heading back, but decided he may as well finish chatting first. He could always go down for breakfast by himself; Ron didn’t have to wait for him. “Uh. I mean. I don’t really care.” Then he thought again, and said, “Also, I reckon you’re a baddie if you try to kill a one-year-old baby. Who cares how powerful you are?” 

Tom bored his eyes into Harry with some severity, as if willing Harry to say something else. To be less ‘boring.’ “Whatever,” he said, finally. A laugh was swelling in Harry’s throat, and he coughed and shifted on his feet. “Something funny, Harry?” 

Harry felt very small, and he didn’t much like it. Especially not at Hogwarts. “No, it’s just a bit--I don’t know, really. I’ve got to go for breakfast, anyway.” 

“It’s been breakfast,” Tom said, bewilderingly. 

Harry frowned for a moment, before letting loose a giggle and rolling his eyes. “Oh, shut up,” he said amiably. Tom was intense but it was okay, totally tolerable, if they could share jokes.

It was weird, sometimes. There weren’t as many people at Hogwarts as there were at Harry’s old school (“Muggle school,” as Ron informed him yesterday), but Harry felt like he was always meeting so many new people. This was definitely the strangest conversation he’d had with a fellow student upon first meeting, but it was still pleasant. Pleasant to feel as though he had friends. Even if everyone was so obsessed with Voldemort, and Harry’s parents. 

But then Tom swore at Harry. 

“Don’t be a _bitch to me!_ ” he hissed. 

The words cut through the room like a blade, and Harry knew it was a really rude swear word, and he didn’t know what to do. “Watch yourself,” Tom added, staring, and he said it very quietly. 

Harry didn’t know how to swear, except he knew it would be cool if he could, because then maybe he could make Ron’s older brothers laugh, or shout rude things back when Dudley was being nasty. But it didn’t feel like something cool now. Harry’s stomach stirred with flapping butterfly wings, and he chewed at the inside of his mouth. Tom’s eyes were very bright and cheery, and fixed on Harry’s worried face. 

“You should leave now. I’ve things to do anyway,” Tom announced with an unprecedented fierceness, the same way teachers do to take the reins in an unorderly class. 

“Uh.” It seemed Harry was dismissed. He fidgeted with the tie uncertainly, slipping it between his fingers. “Alright.” 

“One more thing,” Tom said. “You should probably stick with me, Harry. People like us… The others will be jealous. And they get so stupid when they’re jealous. We’re above that. Stick with me.” 

Harry took a step back. He definitely did not fancy sticking with Tom. He had Ron, and the other Gryffindor boys, and kind of Hermione, sometimes, when she wasn’t being bossy and everything. Tom was bonkers, and not in a good way. And angry, too, and intense. 

“You said ‘people like us.’” 

“I did.” 

“Like what?” 

Tom raised his eyebrows. “Come on.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry said again, shrugging, smiling. 

“Well, don’t be a dunce,” Tom said coolly, eyebrows raised. His voice was soft and high, and a smile played briefly at his mouth. It was kind of funny, Harry thought, and grinned a little back. Butterflies in his belly whirled faster. Maybe he should leave right now. Maybe he should spend some more time with Tom. 

“I really don’t know.” 

Tom laughed. It was like the knocking of bells against one another, bright and sharp. Coming off an exhale, he murmured, “ _You know,_ ” eyes wide, for emphasis. “People like you and me can do it. Only the best wizards can.” 

Harry looked at him. “The purebloods.” Was that what he meant? 

Tom nodded, holding a firm gaze. “Exactly.” 

“Right,” Harry said. “And what exactly are we doing?” 

“Not doing,” Tom said. 

It was with the intensity of Tom’s voice just then that Harry realised how closely Tom had approached. How had he not noticed? Their chests were inches apart, and Tom seemed to be breathing less and less, as if he was totally freezing himself still. His face was bent in close, unmoving, and Harry thought of that particular, icy fear he felt when Uncle Vernon got really angry (really, really, horribly angry), and closed his hands into fists. Tom wasn’t like that, right now, though, not thrashing around or red-faced, or screaming so hard his voice broke in two and he was left rasping out swears. He was perfectly still. And Harry felt distinctly like prey. 

“ _Speaking._ ” His words came like the hiss of a snake. 

“What?” Harry said. 

**Bang.**

In barely a fraction of a second, Tom disintegrated before Harry’s eyes. His very molecules fell away into the air at the speed of a brick hitting the ground--with a loud clatter from somewhere behind him, the whole thing shocked Harry to his core. Harry jumped back, struck with a coldness deep in his belly, and jerked to find the sudden flicker in the corner of his eye. 

Dumbledore stood just before the open doorway, with a scandalised-looking Filch, and Professor McGonagall, her brow dark below her hijab. Their splash of colour--red, green, royal blue--was a jolt to the room, bizarre in the environment’s unnatural whiteness. Behind them, Ron stared, eyebrows knitted confusedly, a smudge of toothpaste on his chin. 

Dumbledore was unmoving, seeming to be taking in the scene with only his eyes, his mouth just barely open. When his gaze fell on Harry, he seemed to look at him the way one looks at a mouse on railway tracks. 

His eyes flickered, worryingly, to the space where Tom had been--had been, because Tom was no longer there. It was no magic spell Harry had ever seen before. To dissolve into air, like that. 

“What--?” Harry asked, but found he couldn’t organise his words. 

“Well then,” Filch said, seeming to gather himself into something vaguely professional, and attempting a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Seems young Potter here’s a--” 

“No,” McGonagall said. 

“Let’s--” Dumbledore began, sharply, and stopped. “Harry. Would you come out of the room, please? Carefully, mind you. Careful where you step.” 

Harry stared back at him. “What’s happening? Do you know where Tom is?” 

Filch’s leathery face seemed to split in two, his yellow teeth bright. “You heard him, Professor, you heard him. You heard the boy, you heard who he, what he said.” He was very nearly hopping from foot to foot. Harry felt a stirring of spite in his jaw. What was Filch talking about? 

“Argus,” McGonagall said, in a low voice. 

“You heard him,” Filch muttered. 

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, reaching out, but not quite putting his arm across the threshold. “I do think it’d be best, for you, to leave the room as I’ve asked you to.” 

“What just happened?” Harry asked, stubbornly now, even though he knew he really ought to listen to Dumbledore. He didn’t want to anger Dumbledore at all--but he felt as though, once he left the room, he would never know what happened. For as long as he stood here, right here, where Tom was (weird, spooky-eyed Tom), he could get answers. 

The professors said nothing. Ron continued to ogle the scene from where he stood in the common room. 

“I’m confused, Professor,” Harry tried, a little humbler now. “What’s happening?” 

“Yeah,” Ron piped up. McGonagall glanced briefly back at him, and Ron seemed to take that as permission to get up on his tiptoes just behind her to get a really good look at the room Harry was standing in. 

Dumbledore’s face softened into something like a smile. He was clearly thinking something through. “I will tell you, Harry. I promise you. But I would ask you to leave this room first. I do not think that it is safe, considering… the young man who was just present here with you.” 

“And who was that?” Harry said, very quietly. 

“Your Parselmouth friend?” Filch snarled. 

“Bog off, Filch,” Ron said. 

“His name was Tom Riddle, Harry,” Dumbledore said, “and I will tell you all about him. Please, Harry. If you will.” 

He stepped back, and gestured to the open door. 

Harry came forward, leaving the dead space, that Tom failed to occupy, hanging in the room behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Another exercise to stretch my writing muscles! I'm not terribly pleased with the flow of this, so I welcome any and all feedback and criticism! If you enjoyed it, feel free to leave a comment; I always appreciate them <3


End file.
